


Three Words, Never Said.

by TheConsultingStepladder



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-15 23:26:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheConsultingStepladder/pseuds/TheConsultingStepladder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’ve never said I love you. </p><p>It’s caused quite a bit of controversy amongst their friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another multi-chapter fic with a theme. All these chapters will be self contained little stories (though they will end up linking in with each other) Thanks for reading!

They’ve never said I love you.

It’s caused quite a bit of controversy amongst their friends.

“How do you know for certain if he’s never said it?” whispered a concerned D.I. one brisk morning as the three men huddled over the dried bloodstain on the pier.

“I’ll eat my badge if I ever hear it with my own ears.” smirked the young detective, her sarcastic grin unable to mask the genuine curiosity in her eyes.

“Oh just tell him will you, you rotten man!” accompanied by a playful slap on the back from the ever present, always cherished landlady.

“Unsurprisingly really, neither of you are very free with your emotions are you now?” grinned the brother, his teacup half raised as he lounged in their sitting room.

“But you both know? Don’t you. That’s why you don’t need to say it.” The sweet pathologist (and the only one not passing judgement on their lack of words) smiled as she brought the slides over.

She is right of course, as usual. He hates that.  
They just don’t say I love you.

It isn’t because they don’t, and it isn’t a bone of contention. There’s simply never been a need, never been a right time or place or speech to which ‘I love you’ seemed a fitting addendum. 

Even the first time, the first day they realised how they felt. Years after disappearances and marriages and many, many arguments, even then, it didn’t sound right.

John remembers the day clearly. He’s unsure if Sherlock does.  
Sherlock often acts as though they have always been together, forgetting a time when they were just friends.  
But John remembers and always he smiles.

It was so incredibly cheesy, but also so unerringly ‘them’.

On a case, as the story always seems to begin, they were chasing down a kidnapper. They had freed his young victim and left her in the hands of Scotland Yard before bounding off to ensure his capture.

He was panicky and made many mistakes while trying to evade them, coming to a lot of dead ends. The final one culminating in him tripping into a water fountain.

Sherlock stripped off his jacket and threw himself in after the culprit. John remembers being taken aback by how quickly it all happened. Sherlock wrestled with him but the jacket slid off the mans’ shoulders and he managed to run back, unfortunately, towards John, who then tackled him back into the gushing water.

After a brief thrash around in the shallow pool they finally managed to subdue him, just as a few more yarders pulled up in their cars, alerted by Sherlock’s GPS.  
They took the kidnapper away as the two men shook themselves off, drenched to the bone.

And strangely, **that’s** when it happened.

John had just managed to peel off his coat when he looked up and was met with Sherlock’s face inches from his as he bent down to empty the water out of his shoes.

His curls were stuck to his forehead and even his eyebrows and lashes were waterlogged.  
His cheeks were red with cold and his shirt clung to his shoulders and chest in a way that shouldn’t have been attractive to him but really was.

John had to be honest, they’d been closer than this before. 

But something about him now, as the moon shone down on them alone by the fountain, ruined and sore but triumphant, made him think of scratchy black and white films, when the leading man, long coat and trilby would lean over and kiss the curly haired leading lady at the climactic scene.

He laughed in spite of himself, not moving any further out of Sherlock’s personal space.

To his delight he received a smirk in return.

Sherlock blinked slowly and grinned widely at John’s sodden smile.  
“What’s so funny?”

Seemingly from nowhere, but in reality from a second storey window, a slow melody from such a film as John was thinking of blew down the street, until it reached them.  
A soft woman’s voice rang out through the plaza around the fountain and surrounded them, skipping a little as though it was playing from an old vinyl.

John smiled broadly, it was ridiculous. Completely and utterly ridiculous.

“Come here.” He spoke and cupped Sherlock’s cheek.  
Sherlock ‘s eyes flinched when he touched him but he didn’t move out of John’s palm.

Slowly he brought the detective down to him and when briefly, he showed a moment of hesitation, John threw his free arm around his soaking back and pulled him into a firm kiss.

As the song wore on and the air got chillier, the kisses became warmer.  
Sherlock opened his mouth to John and they moved against each other, the taller man’s hands in his hair and on the small of his back.

And perhaps that was the moment, so well it was set.

But even then they didn’t say it. They didn’t need to.

They kissed, they went home, they kissed some more, ate and went to bed.

In the morning it was strange, and they talked a little, but ultimately they both decided this was a decision that could only benefit their relationship. 

The next night, John moved into Sherlock’s room and there was no more discussion after that.


	2. Chapter 2

Just because it wasn’t said doesn’t mean it wasn’t conveyed in other ways. 

There was one rather silent and still afternoon, when the detective lay languidly on the couch as was his usual position when not scurrying around London.  
However, his lazy exterior was nothing to do with boredom or slovenliness but rather the terrible aches and groans coming from his interior.

Sherlock had felt rather unwell that morning but brushed it off as a blip, simply the result of having just woken up and not eaten in several long hours.

John had agreed and gone shopping as normal. Unfortunately things seemed worse once he was gone and the noise and chatter of the doctor shuffling around their small space was no longer a distraction from the cramping in his stomach.

He clenched his hands as another wave of pain washed over his insides and cursed whatever foul virus had gotten the better of him.  
Though the flat was quiet every vibration and murmur, from the few cars passing on the street, to Mrs Hudson clattering around in the kitchen downstairs was fit to set him shaking and begging the world to stop moving for a moment so he could collect his thoughts.

At that moment, the door banged shut and Sherlock rolled over groaning.

John made his way up the stairs ‘with absolutely no consideration for the noise’ Sherlock thought, until he rustled into the living room and his eyes fell on the lanky occupant of the couch.

“Not feeling any better I see.” John said matter of factly.

“Shut up.”

“It must be worse than you realised then. I thought you would’ve been up and about by now.” He spoke as he emptied the bags.

Sherlock curled and pulled the cushion around his face.  
“Shut. UP!”

John whistled in reply, “That bad?” he threw out an old carton of milk and an indescribable bag belonging to Sherlock that looked way past experimentation.

Sherlock groaned followed by a short whine as the pain circled his stomach again.  
Finally John finished putting things away and strode over to the man, placing a hand on his hip and motioning for him to roll over.

“Leave. Me. Alone.”

“Sherlock, you’re not going to feel any better with your head stuck in the couch cushions.”

“Piss off.”

“Oi!”  
At that he shoved down on Sherlock’s hip and forced him round to face him.

The detective’s face was peaky apart from his cheeks and he was sweating a little.  
“Oooo that’s come on quick hasn’t it? You look awful. Mind you I can’t think of anything you could have eaten to make you feel like that, so it should just be a 24 hour thing.”

“It’s been two hours John, if it keeps on for another twenty two I may just shoot myself.”

“And wouldn’t that be peace and quiet for us all.” John mumbled under his breath with a smirk.  
“Come on, let’s get you off that couch. “

“ I refuse.”

“If you have some stimulation it will take your mind off the cramping. I won’t guarantee it will stop you being sick but at least you won’t be concentrating on the pain like you are now. Plus your bed is going to be a lot comfier than the couch.”

“Well I can’t. Every time I move it...” he was cut off by another sharp pain whizzing through his abdomen.

Sliding one arm under the taller man, John heaved him upwards until he was standing, leaning into his side . “Christ!” he exclaimed, grunting through the exertion,  
“What is it with you Holmes boys and your ability to magically put on weight?”

Sherlock managed a laugh.

“I’m serious, you can look at a piece of lettuce and gain three pounds.”

“Please don’t mention my brother at a time like this, I already feel like I need to vomit.”

John snorted and began moving towards the bedroom, careful not to shake his friend too much on the way.  
Slowly he walked around to the side of the bed and using his free hand, tugged the duvet free before moving the taller man down to sit down on the edge of the mattress.

“Okay, _gently_ , get into bed and lie flat, I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock winced each time he moved and eventually swung his legs onto the bed with a grunt.  
He leant forward awkwardly, trying not to disturb his raging stomach as he scrabbled to lay the covers over himself. 

As he managed this, John pulled in the television from the living room and moved it around Sherlock’s room until it faced the bed. He dove back into the kitchen and came back with a large glass of water and the television remote. He placed the remote next to Sherlock’s hand and tapped it. 

“There you are. Something to distract you. ” John smiled.

“John, do you really believe watching mindless TV programmes will entertain me enough to help me stave off the agony of this… whatever it is?”

The doctor rubbed his face with his palm, “No, of course I don’t. But you can deduce things about them can’t you? Exhaust your knowledge with one show and move onto another? I don’t know, it has to help somehow?”

“Don’t you have any medicine for this?”

“It wasn’t on the list. And there’s the possibility that anything I give you now might just make you feel worse. It’ll be gone in the morning Sherlock, just drink plenty of water and try and humour yourself. Call me if you need anything.”

John had his handle on the door and just heard the television click on when he shut it behind him.  
Before he’d taken a single step he heard his name called.

Sighing, he span around and opened the door gently, “Yes?”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment and then gestured towards the television.  
“She’s having an affair with her co-star.”

John tilted his head at his friend, his expression blank, “What… are you talking about?”

Sherlock swallowed hard and rubbed at his temples, obviously another pain had come and gone, before gesturing again.  
“The actress… in that show. You like this one don’t you?”

John stepped slowly into the room until he could see the screen. A young spritely actress bobbed up and down chatting animatedly with her co-star.  
John smirked, “Are you kidding? That’s her husband Sherlock. In real life they’re married.”

Sherlock looked sideways at John and grinned.  
“Not that co-star, the other one. The woman.”

John bent down and stared until the woman playing the actress’ sister came into view.  
“HER? But she’s been married for twenty years!”

“Not for much longer I’d bet.”

Without realising he had, John sat down on the bed while he and Sherlock discussed the secrets and habits of various actors in the show, John shocked at some revelations and not so much at others.

Once the show ended, John picked up the remote and found a crime drama to watch. The detective of course was guessing and deducing all the way through until the murderer was revealed.

John smiled slyly, “Hah, I told you! You were wrong! It couldn’t have been her it was too obvious!”  
Sherlock simply glanced at him, “Wait for it…”

Suddenly there was a gunshot and the murderer ran. The on screen detective revealed he had an accomplice, the woman Sherlock had deduced was the shooter. 

John looked round at him in awe. “You lucky sod! You guessed that!”

“I never guess.”

Before he realised it, John had been sitting in bed with Sherlock for six hours, alternating between long indepth chats and actually paying attention to the television.  
At some point he had lain down, his back aching with sitting still for so long.

As the night drew on the dullness of each programme increased until eventually they turned it off altogether.  
After a few minutes Sherlock drew in a sharp breath, clutching the duvet in his hand.  
John rolled over nearer to him and put a comforting hand over his.  
“You alright?”

Sherlock breathed out slowly and nodded once the ache had resided.  
He was still peaky but seemed higher in spirits at least.  
John moved to lie on his side and pushed his flatmate to do the same.  
Now faced with his back, he moved his hand to Sherlock’s shoulder, and began rubbing in slow circles, pressing down only slightly. Sherlock mumbled in gratification.  
Gradually the taller man’s body seemed to relax under his hands and whenever it tensed he would stop his motions until the other man became lax again.

He continued massaging his arm and shoulder until eventually, he realised Sherlock was asleep. Exhausted himself, he too fell quickly into unconsciousness curled up beside his sick partner.

In the morning they both felt awful. John had slept fully clothed and far too hot in bed next to Sherlock and the patient himself had been sick three times in the night.

As terrible as he felt however, the moment Sherlock awoke to see John already up and watching over him, with a fresh glass of water, he involuntarily grinned. Laying a hand over his own stomach to see that it was now feeling tender, but no longer aching or nauseous, he sighed in relief.

And John himself, waking up to see Sherlock’s face no longer flushed and hot, was immediately filled with comfort, knowing that the man he loved would be back to his normal, charming and aggravating self by the afternoon.

They smiled at each other through sore eyes, Sherlock taking the glass from John and sitting up with a little more ease than the day.  
He took a sip and then half pointed towards where John had slept. “I know you err… didn’t mean to. But I mean, when I woke you… when I was…”

“Running to the toilet?” 

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, “Not delicately put but… yes. Thank for you not erm… not…” 

John tried to find the words to give him but wasn’t sure what his point was.

Sherlock cleared his throat and John swore it wasn’t out of frustration.  
“For not.. going.”

“Oh.”

John didn’t mean for his face to go red just then, but red it was. 

That was when they both looked, for far longer than they needed to, and with a lot more meaning than they meant to.

And neither of them knew what to do about it, but they both knew exactly what it meant.

Instead, John smiled and leant forward, pressing a long, sweet kiss to his partner’s forehead while Sherlock wrapped an arm around his shoulders and held him there, hoping the sickness had made him seem vulnerable enough that he could blame it later for this embarrassing display of affection.


End file.
